Dey's Rebels. An' Marse Admiral Parker an' de King's reg'ments
fixin' fo' to tek de fo't, an' den Charlesto'n. Dey say Mister Moultrie
ain't got no mo' chance dan a treed 'possum."
"Why, Breed?" I asked. I had heard my father talk of England's power and
might, and Mister Moultrie seemed to me a very brave man in his little
fort.
"Why!" exclaimed the old negro. "You ain't neber read no hist'ry books.
I knows some of de gentlemen wid Mister Moultrie. Dey ain't no soldiers.
Some is fine gentlemen, to be suah, but it's jist foolishness to fight
dat fleet an' army. Marse Gen'l Lee hisself, he done sesso. I heerd
him."
"And he's on Mister Moultrie's side?" I asked.
"Sholy," said Breed. "He's de Rebel gen'l."
"Then he's a knave and a coward!" I cried with a boy's indignation.
"Where did you hear him say that?" I demanded, incredulous of some of
Breed's talk.
"Right heah in dis house," he answered, and quickly clapped his hand to
his mouth, and showed the whites of his eyes. "You ain't agwineter tell
dat, Marse Dave?"
"Of course not," said I. And then: "I wish I could see Mister Moultrie
in his fort, and the fleet."
"Why, honey, so you kin," said Breed.
The good-natured negro dropped his work and led the way upstairs, I
following expectant, to the attic. A rickety ladder rose to a kind of
tower (cupola, I suppose it would be called), whence the bay spread out
before me like a picture, the white islands edged with the whiter lacing
of the waves.
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